


True Grit McHanzo Reboot: Chapter 1 - Marshal McCree

by PnP



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Attraction, Desire, First Meetings, M/M, McHanzo AU, McHanzo Week, Western, hanzo - Freeform, mccree - Freeform, true grit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PnP/pseuds/PnP
Summary: "True Grit" re-imagined with McHanzo.  Because those are both things that we love.After his father is shot to death by an outlaw, 26-year-old Hanzo Shimada hires a trigger-happy, not-entirely-sober, 30-something-year-old Marshal Jesse McCree to help track down the murderer.  The young Hanzo's hot-headed impulsiveness and McCree's ornery antics don't make them the best of friends right away.  But there's an undeniable fascination they have for each other that quickly develops into a chemistry they just can't ignore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome once again, McHanzo fans! Same disclaimer as before: the writing style may come across a little jarring because it’s basically an RP of one of our favorite pairings of all time. You’ll notice a POV shift every few paragraphs or so between Jesse and Hanzo.
> 
> If any of you haven't seen the Cohen brothers' screen adaptation of the novel "True Grit," we highly recommend you get your hands on a copy ASAP. Right up there with Tombstone, this western is one of our favorites, and it's absolutely the inspiration for this McHanzo fic.
> 
> Please Note: This fic has character dialogue containing ethnic slurs, which were used during the time period in which the story takes place. These ethnic slurs are meant to emphasize how foreign and misunderstood Hanzo feels when surrounded by people who lack a global perspective. They are not meant to offend the reader but rather to bring them closer to Hanzo's internal state and to shed light on people's cultural biases. We, PnP, wish to make it clear that it is not our desire to offend anyone--rather it is our desire to bring you closer to the characters.
> 
> -PnP

Hanzo strode to the sheriff’s office, squinting.  The dust and winter chill stung his face this early morning.  He walked stiffly, having spent the night in a tight, pine coffin in the undertaker’s shop, fully clothed in his wool Western suit just to stay warm, because the inn was “full-up”--or so the suspicious-eyed innkeeper had said.  In addition to that, Hanzo had had to identify his father’s corpse, horrifyingly gaunt from the blood-loss of three bullet wounds, and be told by the undertaker that the un-Christian practice of cremation was out of the question, as was transporting the body back to Japan for a traditional funeral.  His eyes were already watering from the strong winds, and he could’ve cried this very moment, sick to his stomach with grief and rage.  But there was business to see to in this godless, barbarian land.  Hanzo knew the face and name of his father’s murderer.  And he wasn’t about to set foot on any ship home until his father was avenged.

“Good morning.”  Hanzo bowed at the doorway of the sheriff’s office.

“‘Mornin’,” croaked a drunk from the cell at the back of the room.

Hanzo stepped through, the cheap wood planks that made up the floor giving a little under his polished leather shoes.

The sheriff himself was busy packing tobacco in his pipe.  “Mornin’...”  He looked up at last when he found a good place to stop and seemed to notice for the first time that he was looking at an Asian--because he stared at Hanzo for a good ten seconds before asking, “How can I help you, sir?”

“I have come to find out if there has been any word about Tom Chaney.”

“Tom Chaney?”

“Yes, sir.  The man who shot my father.”

The sheriff grimaced--it didn’t seem very apologetic.  “No, we ain’t arrested him.  Chaney took off for Injun Territory.”  He lifted his hat to scratch underneath it.  “Heard tell he joined up with Reaper’s gang robbin’ mail hacks, but we ain’t caught up to ‘em.”

Hanzo’s shoulders and jaws tensed.  “Pardon me, but why are you not out looking for them?”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow.  “I haven’t the authority in the Indian Nation.  Only the U.S. Marshals is authorized to arrest out there.”

“Have you heard from them?”

“No, and not likely to.  The marshals are few in number, and there’s a whole list of ne’er-do-wells on their list before they get to your Tom Chaney. Not sure the marshals would give much of a dern, to be honest, about helpin’ a young Chink like yourself, when there’s bandits out rapin’ and murderin’ white women and children.”

Hanzo breathed in, every ounce of his body holding back from shouting at this ignorant, useless bastard.  The thought of bribing him “to be a marshal” crossed his mind too, but looking him over, clearly this man had only enough backbone to handle this one craphole town.  The whole place stunk of impotence and horse shit.

The sheriff sighed and moved to leave. “‘Scuse me, please.”

“Could I hire one of these marshals?”  Hanzo stepped in his path.  “To find Tom Chaney?”

The sheriff stared at him for a moment and chuckled.  “What kind of money you got?”

“That is my business.  Could I hire a marshal?”

“Well…” The sheriff gave half a shrug.  “If you _can_ offer a reward, nothin’ prevents you. Or from making that reward known to a marshal.  Would have to be _real_ money though.  Not silk ‘n’ spices...”

Hanzo pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth for a moment to keep back the verbal whip straining to lash out.  “Who is the best marshal?”

The sheriff hummed to himself, tugging at his beard.  “Depends.  I’d say the one that just goes by ‘Marshal: 76’ is the best tracker.  He’s former infantry with some serious know-how.  The meanest is Jesse McCree.  No fear, no pity--he’s tougher than a she-bear in a bad mood.”  The sheriff shook his head.  “He does love to pull a cork though.”

“Those are the best?”

“Well, the best is probably L.O. Tracer.  She brings her prisoners in alive.  Believes even the scum of the earth is entitled to a fair trial and such, God bless ‘er.”

Fair?  Hanzo’s lip twitched.  And what was fair about his father getting shot in the chest, three times?  That crime seemed pretty God-damned deliberate.   _I have no use for a corrupt, backcountry court system that could no less differentiate China from Japan than it could left from right._ Hanzo wanted to say it, but instead he thanked the sheriff for the information. “And where can I find this Jesse McCree?”  
  
 

 *****************************************         

 

Lye-bar-clean and sore lipped from all the talking he had to do in court, The Marshal McCree was grateful to finally have his lips on the edge of a cool glass. Whiskey always helped him feel better after the trips to the courthouse. Talking about killing the men he’d _done in_ made him thirsty, and more in a thirsty soul kind of way than anything else… He tugged at the bottom of his too-tight waistcoat, the burgundy wool faded with time but it was the only good suit he had. It had been tailored when he was ten years younger, fresher, and didn’t need nearly as much liquor to sleep at night. His pants were a bit tight around the unmentionables and he shifted on the stool at the counter, tugging at the fabric near his hip. His guns were heavy and plunked on the wood, like the glass when he set it down, empty after the first swallow.

A strange little silence fell over the saloon and he turned over his shoulder to see what it was. He’d been expecting a gang member, but in the doorway, pushing back the bubbled, honey colored glass was a lithe drink of water, dressed head to toe in black with a pressed white shirt. An Asian. No wonder the bar went silent. This foreign young man had no idea that people from his corner of the world didn’t come in here unless they wanted trouble. Jesse stared, a bit mesmerized by the beauty of his face, the way his sophisticatedly trimmed facial hair framed his high cheekbones. He had long hair, pulled back. His eyes were intense and filled with ghosts, like he’d been staring at death all day. Jesse swallowed. His old, greyed collar freshly starched but pathetically unprepared for how Jesse started to sweat in it. This young man looked like an undertaker, and goddamit… Jesse couldn’t stop looking. Desire pooled in him like water down a drain, straight to his god-given parts for replenishing the earth. Jesse forced himself to turn back around and grabbed the bottle, filling his glass more than half way with whiskey.  

 

Hanzo’s heart pounded as the saloon went silent.  He should’ve expected as much, but still, he hated being the center of attention, at home or anywhere.  He made sure to iron any vulnerability out of his expression and crossed the room, glancing to each side once, quietly on alert, and made his way to the bar.  Maybe if he just went about his business, spoke with the bartender, and kept to himself, there wouldn’t be trouble.

He didn’t speak until inches from the counter.  “Excuse me.”

The bartender, drying a mug, paused and looked over.

Hanzo gestured for him to come closer, but he didn’t seem to understand.  So Hanzo moved closer instead, not very happy about how close that put him to one of the gentlemen seated at the bar.  “I was told I’d find Marshal McCree here.  Have I come to the right place?”

 

The bartender sighed, his eyes momentarily glancing at the man in the red suit, nursing the whiskey bottle. He put his hand on his hip and with a raised eyebrow said, “Who’s lookin’ fer him?”

 

“He doesn’t know me,” said Hanzo, keeping his voice somewhat hushed.  “My name is Hanzo Shimada.”

 

The bartender seemed unimpressed and went back to wiping glasses and placing them on the shelf.

“Well, that’s your man right there.” He pointed to Jesse, who went a bit stiff and gave him the stink-eye. “And please, whatever you two are gunna do, do it outside.”

“Now, c’mon, Gilbraltar…” Jesse said, visually shifting uncomfortably. He turned to Hanzo, his hand on his knee. “Howdy. Marshal McCree.” He let go of his whiskey and held his hand out for Hanzo to shake. “Mister Shimada. That’s a Japanese name, right?”

Goddamn if he wasn’t pretty up close.

 

Hanzo looked from the bartender to the man who was, apparently, Marshal Jesse McCree, not sure what to read from that whole… interaction between the two.  Hanzo grasped McCree’s hand firmly and shook it, as he had been taught to do, but he still bowed a little as well.  “Yes.  Pleased to meet you.  Hanzo Shimada.”

The marshal’s suit didn’t fit as well as his, and though McCree looked more put-together than most of the people Hanzo had encountered in this town, he had the unsettled look of someone not used to wearing that day’s outfit on a regular basis.  “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a moment?”  Hanzo tried not to stare, but for a Westerner, the marshal actually had a rather comely face, attractive bones--at least once Hanzo got a better look past the healthy beard and mustache.  He didn’t look particularly threatening...though his guns did.

 

Jesse cleared his throat after they shook hands and tugged on the lapel on his jacket. Mister Shimada was young. Couldn’t be older than 25. Hell’s bells those eyes were shaped like a lotus blossom and his lips curved finer than a paisley print. Jesse grinned, enjoying staring at his gorgeous face.

“Yeah.” He said, grasping his glass. “Pull up a stool and I’ll lend you an ear.”

 

Hanzo hadn’t been expecting a smile.  It had a striking amount of charm that made his heart palpitate for an instant.  “Thank you.”  Hanzo still felt a little disarmed by it as he took a seat on the stool next to McCree.  “Brandy, please,” he ordered quickly, before angling himself toward the marshal.

“Marshal,” Hanzo dropped his voice to almost a whisper, “are you familiar with a man named Tom Chaney?”  


Jesse’s brow furrowed as he took a mental note and checked his memory. He was a little disappointed that this seemed to be more of an official conversation than he was expecting. He sat up and reached into his pocket, pulling out his fixins for his cigarette.

“It’s not a name I’m familiar with. What about the man interests you?”

 

“You see…”  Hanzo felt his palms start to perspire over his thighs.  “I came here--to America--on business with my father.  He came to buy some cattle to bring to back to Japan.  There’s a growing demand for beef…”  Why was he getting into all this, babbling on and on… “Tom Chaney was a man he hired to help…” Damn, what was the English word… “ _transport_ the cattle. But things, as you say, went sour.  Chaney felt that he was being… that we take advantage… of him…” It was getting harder and harder to remember his English the more his heart pounded, the closer he got to the end of the story.  “He got drunk… and he shot my father, three times. And he stole my father’s horse and ran.  I went to the sheriff, but he said that Chaney was in Indian Territory.  So I need to find this man, and I need someone to help me.”

 

Jesse McCree was not a soft man, but watching this handsome, desperate looking young man talk about the death of his father… it put a sympathetic hand on his heart and head. Jesse sniffed, looking down as he stuffed the tobacco into his paper, his fingers slow. He was quiet for a long moment, reflecting.

“I’ve heard this story. Went about town in the past day or so. ‘Cept the man’s name was Chelmsford, rather than Chaney. Must be a pseudonym or an acquired name to protect the man you’re looking for…” Jesse lifted the paper to his mouth, licking it where he intended to roll it over. “Mm. To be frank, Mister Shimada, your man could be long gone if he’s had a day ahead in the territory. And I’m not in the position to accept charity cases.”

He put the rolled paper into his mouth, it mumbled his speech when he tried to talk with partially closed lips.

“You can accept my sympathies on account of your loss. I’ll buy you that drink.”

 

“Charity case?  You misunderstand.”  He faced McCree directly.  “This man is wanted.  There is a fugitive warrant out for his arrest.  I checked with the sheriff.  Your government will pay you a reward for bringing him in, plus extra for every mile.  And I will pay you a reward on top of that, in ‘real money.’”

 

McCree found his matches, looking away from Mr. Shimada as he began to strike them. It wasn’t catching though.“Mm. _Real money_ , hm?”Jesse had been promised _real money_ before and that’d fallen through like a rock on wet paper. “How much?” Frustrated, Jesse grumbled as he couldn’t get his match lit.

 

Hanzo reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his own matches.  He struck one on the counter, and it lit instantly.  “Fifty dollars.”  He held the match up for McCree’s cigarette.

 

Jesse McCree kept his expression cool. But fifty dollars was _hefty_ compensation. And he said he was offering this on top of the reward? Jesse leaned and inhaled to light it, muttering.

“Well. That is real money.”

He took a drag and leaned back, his elbow coming up onto the counter. Jesse held his breath, thinking.

 

“I have one condition.”  Hanzo sipped his brandy.  “You’ll take me with you into the Territory.”

 

The Marshal looked over with a puzzled expression. He blew the smoked out of his nostrils.

“Now-- hold on, I haven’t agreed to anything, so don’t start talkin’ conditions--”

He reached for another sip from his glass.

 

“It’s not fair to give you the terms up front?”  Hanzo cocked a brow.

 

Jesse took a drink, the depth of his voice increased by the alcohol sliding down his throat.

“There’s a subtlety and an art that comes when negotiating a contract and I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. How old are you?”

 

An American speaking to him about subtlety. That was rich.

“I don’t have time to waste on subtlety when every moment my father’s killer rides farther into the distance.”  Hanzo clacked his empty glass down on the counter.  The bartender came over quickly but quietly and refilled it.  “I was told you were a man with ‘true grit,’ Marshal McCree, but I see your legend is bigger than you are.”  He downed half the glass.  Shit, he was mad, but now he’d royally messed up--insulting maybe the only person who might even entertain the idea of helping him.

 

At that, Jesse’s temper flared up. It was the irish side of him. He clapped his glass on the counter too and stood up, taller than Mister Shimada by, at least, two feet. He pulled at his belt, the spare bullets tugging with gravity. His brow was furrowed.

“Listen, I am sorry for you, Mister Shimada, but I have no reason to stand by and be insulted by a man who does not know my character or seeks to belittle it.” He pulled his hat down over his eyes, his spurs clinking as he looked back at the bartender.

“Be sure his drinks are applied my tab, Gil. I’ll keep my word on that.” McCree looked back at Hanzo. “Good day, Mister Shimada. I am sorry for your loss.” He turned to go, heels clunking.

 

Shit… Why, why had he said that to the marshal?  Hanzo wanted to slam his own head on the counter.  This damned, horrible nightmare… He just wanted it to be over.  He just wanted to go home.  And he wanted to apologize to this man, but damn if his pride wasn’t getting the better of him right now.

Just then, he saw a couple men approaching him from his left flank.  Another one off to his right stood up but lingered by the table.

“Looks like someone’s itchin’ for a little trouble,” said one of them, a lanky, whiskery man that smelled like sour tobacco, even from feet away.

His partner chuckled.  “Angry little feller, bitin’ at the marshal’s ankles.”

“Fellas, take it outside,” said the bartender.

“Happy to oblige,” said the lanky one.  “ _If_ this Chink gets his ass up in the next ten seconds.”

Damn it… Hanzo’s gut tightened.  He had two tantos concealed in his jacket, but the last thing he needed now was to get arrested for knifing someone.

Hanzo turned, looking over the both of them.  “I don’t want a fight, sirs.  Please leave me be.”

They snickered.  “How do I have to say this?” said the second one.  “You’re not wanted here.  You and any other smelly yeller folks.  You better just hightail it out of this town.”

“Fine then,” said Hanzo.  “Let me pass.”

“Aw, sweetcheeks.  It’s too late for that.”

Both men grabbed for him.

 

Marshal Jesse McCree was in no mood. Before they could even squeeze their hands around Hanzo’s arm, Jesse’s fist landed on the face of one, his hat flying over his head and onto the ground, following the man to the wood planks of the floor. Jesse swung again and got the second one as he was backing up, right on his jaw. They both were on the ground at the Marshal’s feet, McCree huffing, shoulders rising with anger.

“Goddammit…” McCree stooped to pick up his cigarette and his hat. He dusted off the brim, the boys groaning on the ground. He put the cigarette back into his lips. He looked back at Hanzo Shimada.

 

Hanzo watched, stunned.  It was over in seconds.  Mouth open, he looked at McCree, gazing with a newfound respect and gratitude.  And admiration.  He’d never seen two men dropped so fast.  What a punch…

“Thank you.”  He bowed quickly.  “I…”  He looked over the groaning lowlifes then over his shoulder at the bartender.  “Sorry.  And...”  He faced McCree.  “...I’m so sorry, Marshal.”  He hurried for the door, face and ears on fire.  He had to get out of here _now_.

 

Wait. He was leaving. The Marshal scowled and shouted at the boys on the floor.

“You boys quit picking on the yellow folk, goddamit, or I will arrest you!” He started after Hanzo, his heavy boots clunking on the wood. “Hey! Wait!” But Hanzo Shimada was already out the door. Jesse growled and caught up with him down the steps, making a bit of a spectacle of himself as he grabbed the young, foreign boy by the sleeve, his blood pumping.

“Hold on a goddamn second, you slippery little--” Jesse yanked him back. Hell, he was pretty when he blushed like that. His eyes were wider, filled with shock and embarrassment. Jesse’s lips rolled in, as he wetted them. “You ain’t running away! Not after promising me fifty dollars!”

 

Hanzo stared at him in bewilderment.  They were standing close to each other, their breath fogging in the winter air.  “You were the one who said you hadn’t agreed to anything.”

 

McCree didn’t let go. “Then I change my _goddamn_ mind, sister boy.” Anger was a close cry to lust for Jesse McCree, and his instincts were winning. Fuck, if he wasn’t a US bonded Marshal and still an outlaw, he would have pulled that doe-eyed man into a kiss. He breathed in, trying to get self control back, grateful he hadn’t drank too much.

He finally let go.

“I changed my mind.” Jesse tugged on his lapels. “I changed.”

 

Was he imagining the way the Marshal’s gaze dropped to his lips, that thickening of his pupils?  It made something startle and flutter in Hanzo’s middle, his arm still in that strong grip.

But it couldn’t be _that_.  Even if he had to admit to himself by now that the Marshal was handsome in his own way and that his intensity was… enticing… Hanzo had to have imagined that look.

“Well…”  Hanzo found his lips bending in a faint smile, for the first time in so long, as relief slowly filled him up.  “...that’s not very ‘subtle.’”

 

Jesse’s skin tingled at the wit and the curl of that bow-like lip-- narrow. Calculating. He chuckled, his head tipping down. His temper was cooling… but that other need was just warming up like water starting to boil.

“Hah, red handed and hog-tied.” Jesse adjusted his hat. “Where are you stayin’, Mister Shimada?”

 

That was a good question.  “I… I was going try the inn, if they aren’t full again tonight.”  There was that smile McCree had given him when they first met.  Hanzo had to glance away from it for a second, although doing that didn’t help the flush in his cheeks.

 

Full? The Inn wasn’t full. He was only in town because of the court case and earlier when he’d asked about persons of interest the innkeep had said she’d hadn’t seen hardly anyone. What was it in this town that turned people sour to foreigners? Well, he’d been called a number of names on account of his half-blood many a time. His empathy went out to Mister Shimada. Jesse plucked the cigarette from his lips, exhaling.

“Well, I’ll see if I can call in a favor. Maybe if it’s still _occupied_ , we can come up with an arrangement to share a room.” Which wasn’t a bad idea, considering he was down on his funds and that did not seem to be the case for Mister Shimada. “How’s that sound to you?”

 

Sharing a room definitely sounded better than sleeping in a pine box again--if even that was still an option.  But sharing a room with _this_ man… an American he didn’t even know…

But then again, McCree had saved him from those thugs, when there really was no incentive to do so.  There was something decent in him.

Hanzo nodded.  “That would be alright.”

 

 


	2. Sharing a Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension begins to mount as Marshal McCree and Hanzo Shimada settle into their room at the inn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome once again, McHanzo fans! We hope you enjoy the first draft of Chapter 2. A big shout-out to everyone who has bookmarked this "piece of work." Thank you!!
> 
> Same disclaimer as before: the writing style may come across a little jarring because it’s basically an RP of one of our favorite pairings of all time. You’ll notice a POV shift every few paragraphs or so between Jesse and Hanzo.
> 
> Please Note: This fic has character dialogue containing ethnic slurs, which were used during the time period in which the story takes place. These ethnic slurs are meant to emphasize how foreign and misunderstood Hanzo feels when surrounded by people who lack a global perspective. They are not meant to offend the reader but rather to bring them closer to Hanzo's internal state and to shed light on people's cultural biases. We, PnP, wish to make it clear that it is not our desire to offend anyone--rather it is our desire to bring you closer to the characters.
> 
> -PnP

“Occupied?” Marshal McCree was shocked. “Full and stock?”

“Yessir, Marshal McCree. Yessir.” The bonnet haired, plump Miss Row said, with a nod of her head, chins bulging. “On account of the hanging. Had folks rush in after news on the trial. Supposing since you had been participating, you'd be the first to _know_.” She pittered puttered around with a dust rag, lifting a bronze figurine of a stag. “However, since I did not know the date of your original departure, given it was county business, There will be no issue extending your stay.” Miss Row stepped around, huffing as she got up the step to a broad, wooden desk behind the welcome counter of the inn.

The Marshal leaned with one elbow on the wood, waiting as she opened her log book, making one of those sounds that older women tended to make, when thinking. She muttered to herself then glanced up, giving the young man who accompanied the Marshal a look. Her eyes went back to McCree.

With a sigh and a pat of his large hand on the wood, McCree turned to Mr. Shimada, his brow quirking up. “Well, it seems we’re outta luck, partner. The other inns will be the same. If you don't mind sharing a room, then my occupancy appears to be your only option.”

He gave his younger employer a look, the thought occurring to him that perhaps this could be seen as a proposal for some… untoward or perhaps more _intimate_ accommodations than Mr. Shimada had been expecting. Was this sort of double meaning missed on this foreigner, as intelligent and well-spoken as he appeared to be? He couldn't clarify in front of the woman, that'd just confirm any suspicion she had, then he'd be out on the street for committing acts with a man and Mr. Shimada would too. Old bitty. McCree could feel her gaze travel back and forth between the two of them. He hoped she couldn't sense that…

And a part of the Marshal hoped Hanzo did understand that meaning… that they'd be sharing a bed… and intimacies of the physical sort. He had to admit that he'd stolen more than one glance on their quiet walk over here from across the blocks of town. Marshal Jesse McCree was burning a bit for him. Hell, what was there not to stare at with this beautiful creature? His skin was pale-- he was a rich boy. Delicate hands. Small feet. But shoulders broad for his height with a slender waist. He carried himself like a prince. Elegant and muscular. A young stallion-- sinew, bone and muscle. To Jesse, those dark eyes of an indiscernible color were so intriguing. He wanted to get closer. Stare. Figure out what made them so unique and inviting.

The Marshal gave a tug on the sides of his belt and stepped closer to his client, head ripping down to meet that seemingly always tempestuous gaze. “Your thoughts, Mr. Shimada?”

 

Share a room, a _bed_ … with this man? His first impulse was simply, _yes_ , and, _who the hell cares?_ It was definitely better than spending the night half frozen in a pine box… or huddled up in an alleyway like some beggar. Hanzo had shared a room before with his father and brother on the road, although they hadn't shared the futon...

But there was another side to it too. Marshal McCree may have been a lawman, but that was no guarantee that he still wouldn't rob or do worse to Hanzo while he slept. This man obviously wasn't well-to-do, and this wild country was devoid of honor. Survival was the priority out here.

But Hanzo’s body ached and his head throbbed with exhaustion. He could've slept soundly on the floor right there in the lobby. He felt weepy, like a tired child, and what's more there was simply nothing familiar to cling to. He was on his own, and this man was the only person now who could help him.

Sleeping side by side with Marshal McCree? Yes, that was a risk he would take tonight.

He met McCree’s gaze. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll humbly accept that accommodation. And I’ll pay my share.” He tipped his head down in gratitude.

 

Leading Mr. Shimada to the room felt a bit like leading someone to a funeral viewing. In the dim hallway, his exhaustion was beginning to show and that awkward, unspoken tension accompanied by his grief… The Marshal felt increasingly poor about his supposing to make some kind of advance. This young man was all alone. All alone…

“The bed is not narrow…” Jesse McCree mumbled, still feeling like it was a remark of a man who would take advantage of this young mister. He opened the door and walked in with a sigh, feeling his own exhaustion creeping. “Yer things can go in the wardrobe. I have got my traveling clothes in there but not much else.” He started to pull at the necktie on his collar as he stood in the middle of the room. “Dinner will be at seven…” He looked over. Mister Shimada looked like a hunted cat. But what could he do? Comforting folk was not a strong suit for the Marshal. He was a brute of a man, too simple for delicate words and complicated niceties and he didn't feel nearly drunk enough, especially after that sobering walk.

“Miss Row will have a bath run, if you want it.”

 

Hanzo followed the Marshal into the room in silence. The floor creaked underneath them as if begrudgingly acknowledging their presence. If there was room in the wardrobe like McCree said, it was probably best to unpack his things. It was much easier for a thief to snatch everything if it was all in a couple bags. He didn't trust the locks in these places. Or the staff.

Hanzo glanced over at McCree, catching sight of the Marshal unfastening his tie. Something about that… It made Hanzo wonder how much of this man’s clothes were coming off, especially at bedtime. Hanzo was used to bathing and being in the nude briefly around other men, especially at the dojo, but he'd been told that Westerners viewed nudity rather differently.

As nice as a bath sounded, he wasn't so sure he wanted one.

“Do you think… they would mind if I had my dinner in here?” Hanzo took off his wool coat and hung it in the wardrobe. “I don't feel like being stared at the whole time I eat.”

 

McCree took off his hat, setting it and the necktie on the side table.

“I cannot say I do not sympathize, Mister Shimada, but that usually is not the way things are done here.” With a sigh, the Marshal sat on the bed, his back to this stranger. He felt bushwhacked. He wished again that he was drunker. “I will take the rug, tonight. So you do not have to share the bed with a stranger.”

 

“Hm.” Hanzo gut tightened at the thought of having to eat with all those people staring at him. But what could he do? He had to eat.

He paused, uncertain what McCree meant at first by “take the rug,” but then it made sense, and guilt stung him immediately.

“Ah--no, that's not necessary. Please don't on my account.” This man would really sleep on the hard, cold floor just out of courtesy? “If we're paying half-and-half for this room, that would not be fair to you.”

 

The Marshal lifted his hand but didn't turn.

“Your insistence is moot and I will not hear it. I'm paying for the floor too. It appears indecent if two men share a bed.” That wasn't entirely true but he wasn't sure if self control could stay if he was lying next to this young stranger. He cleared his throat. “Also, on the matter of pay…” he turned, looking at Mister Shimada over his shoulder. He smiled, lips crooked over his blessedly uncrooked teeth. “Supposin’ you could take the share of the room from my fifty dollar reward pay… would be a help. To me.”

 

So he didn't actually have the money to pay for his share of the room right now? Or after paying for it he would basically be broke?

How many fugitives did he actually catch and get paid for if he was so low on funds? Or did he just drink all that bounty money away?

“To ask for that, you must be quite certain of catching Chaney.” He gave McCree a careful look.

 

McCree’s smile faded. “It is a common practice for a commission to be dispersed before the service.”

 

Hanzo didn't like being instructed on what constituted “common practice.” Especially when it came from some man he'd just met in a saloon. “Fair enough. But I won't ‘disperse’ anything more after tonight if I catch you spending it all at the bar, Marshal.”

 

“Spend? On alcohol? No, I don’t need to buy that… I confiscate it!” He chewed his lip, standing, getting his tobacco pouch from his coat. He grumbled. “Guarantee you won’t find another marshal who is interested in going to find your man in the dog middle of winter, in Indian territory… for fifty dollars…”

 

Hanzo glared, a sudden rage boiling up.  “Fifty dollars is _no mean sum_.”   _And I’m sure I can find another marshal who’d jump on it!_

But it definitely wasn’t a good idea to say that second part--especially when he still needed a room for the night and when McCree could very well be right.  Damn him.

“But how about this?”  Hanzo put his hands on his hips, a dominant pose he’d seen American men make.  “If you get me Chaney in three weeks, I’ll make it sixty.  Two weeks… _seventy_.”

 

McCree shook his head, the strong of his tobacco purse in between his teeth. He took out a tiny piece of paper to make his cigarette. Mister Shimada had no idea how any of this worked did he? His tobacco leaves were too dry. They slipped out on his lap as he put some in there.

“I’ll do my best to catch your man as quickly as possible, _Young Master Shimada_.” He lapped the paper along the edge. “It’d be faster if you didn’t come with me…”

 

This man really thought he didn’t have a clue, did he?  Hanzo felt his ears get hot.  “I am curious why that would be. I know how to ride a horse.”

 

He rolled his cigarette. “Mm, it is more than riding horses. I won’t be sleepin’ in inns, eating proper food with proper accommodations. Light travel. Cold. This isn’t a night out under the stars. Finding your man is gunna be days on horseback, and nights on the ground. Besides-- the territory is full of bandits on the run--and indians. The civilities of town and manners will not be a stopper on the wild of the Indian nation.” He pulled his matches out. He didn’t have any left. “Goddammit…” He leaned to get some out the the drawer, his big hands rifling through it clumsily. “You look like you haven’t done a hard day’s work, let alone spent nights on a trail in hostile country.”

 

Hanzo lips twitched, ready to fly open with a hundred insults he could hurl right back at this man.  So what if he himself had pushed the subject and was now just getting an “honest” answer?

But even though he was seething, Hanzo kept his mouth shut.  He was tired of bickering.  He was tired of everything foolish he did just getting slung back in his face.  He missed his father, how that wise and gentle man would always have a way of calming a situation, finding a compromise.  Until Chaney.

Hanzo refolded his spare trousers on the bed and walked them to the wardrobe. He went to work on his spare shirt next.  He said the only thing he could think of that his father might’ve said in this situation, without a hint of irony.

“I’ll try not to be a burden.”

 

The marshal sighed as he couldn’t find matches, the cigarette bobbing in his lips as he spoke, he stood and started to search his other pockets.

“Why don’t you just stay here? I’ll come back with your man, Chaney, and see that he’s put on trial.”

 

Hanzo went back to his coat in the wardrobe and plucked out his pack of matches.  “I thought that would be enough.”  He offered McCree the match.  “But after the welcome I’ve received from basically everyone but you, I doubt Chaney would hang for shooting a ‘yellow’ man.”

 

McCree thanked Hanzo before he leaned down, inhaling, his broad fingers on the cigarette. He looked Hanzo in the eyes, watching that light in his eyes from the end of the flame extinguish. Up close, he looked even more tired… and more beautiful, the Marshal thought, if a man could be described as such. Which, certainly, this man could.

“Wish I could contradict ya, Mister Shimada.” He blew out his smoke the rest of the way. “Can I offer you one? A cigarette?”

 

So McCree understood?  That Hanzo wasn’t interested in bringing Chaney back alive?  The Marshal hadn’t batted an eye.

Hanzo gave a nod.  “Please.  Thank you.”

 

The Marshal didn’t move away as he got out his pouch again, holding up a little bit of paper for Hanzo. He grumbled. “My makin’s are a bit dry…” He looked into those young, tapered eyes again. He thought for a moment, measuring his words. He spoke quietly. “Killing a man… isn’t what you suppose it to be, Mister Shimada.”

 

Why was McCree warning him like this, like some old sage?  What did he care?  It further infuriated Hanzo that McCree would just assume he’d never actually killed anyone before.  Even if it was true that he hadn’t.  He just hated all these God damn assumptions being made to his face!

“Marshal.”  Hanzo met his eyes for a keen moment.  “I’m not a child.”

 

The Marshal McCree had been with a few dead serious, serious as the Word of God, dead as meat in a pan _stares_ in his life. This was one of them. It was so sincere, so purposeful that it caught Jesse off guard. He didn’t know how to react. He sucked on his cigarette, pursed lips closing. Then, with a sputter, fighting his instinct to wrap his hand around the back of Mister Shimada’s neck and pull him up to steal a kiss-- proving how much of a child he _wasn’t_ \-- the Marshal turned away and laughed, plucking his cigarette from his lips before he could drop it.

 

Laughing… the Marshal was _laughing_ at him.

Hanzo’s heart pounded, almost drowning out any sounds around him.  His chest swelled so full with fury that he felt sick.  His body propelled him forward, right toward McCree, his lips curling back from his teeth in a snarl.

“Don’t you _dare_ laugh at me--”  He grabbed McCree’s shoulder.

 

McCree turned, limp in Hanzo’s hand. His lips were still spread in a smile. He chuckled and attempted an apology but hell, he was so young, so lively. Jesse had been a lone with him too long in this bedroom. He wanted to put him down on that bed and kiss Hanzo until he couldn’t remember his grief and anger anymore.

 

“Stop it!”  Hanzo grabbed him with both hands.  “Stop smiling! Y--you shit!”

 

The Marshal’s brow immediately furrowed, he tried to put his hands up between them both.

“Alright, now, there’s no need for words--”

 

“Shut up!”  Hanzo pushed forward into his space, throwing McCree’s hands aside.  “You talk down to me… You laugh at me, at my _pain…_ ”  His eyes watered with hot, furious, and now humiliated tears.  He’d never been this angry before… “What kind of Goddamn man are you?”

 

His cigarette fell to the ground. He was trying really hard not to lose his temper. He knew where this was coming from. Mister Shimada was feeling a grief and rage that he had never felt before. The Marshal grabbed Hanzo by the shoulders, his grip strong. He breathed deeply, not letting Hanzo move out of it.

“Quiet.” He said. “Don’t.”

 

Hanzo resisted that grasp, his face hot.  He could feel those mortifying tears flood his eyes.  Now he just wanted to run away and hide his shameful face.  But he could only struggle against McCree’s vice-like grip as the tears spilled down his cheeks.  “Let go--” he sputtered in Japanese.  He couldn’t even remember how to say it in English right now.

 

They struggled, Hanzo wiggling in his hands. Jesse held him still, not saying a word. He watch those huge tears roll down Hanzo’s flushed cheeks, beading on his eyelashes. They were chest to chest. That Japanese must have been something along the lines of _let me go_ , but Hanzo didn’t know how it was temptation for Jesse. Like egging him on. Goddammit…

The Marshal wrapped his broad hands around this young, grief stricken man’s shoulders and pulled him tightly into an embrace, squeezing hard enough to deny him air. He didn’t give him an inch to struggle and he held his ground like a mule not wanting to pasture.

 

What…

Hanzo was fastened in this man’s arms, hugged right against his broad chest, his face given nowhere to go but the crook of McCree’s neck, due to the height difference.  It was so… warm.  What in the hell was this man doing?

Hanzo couldn’t move--he could hardly breathe.  For a second he almost wondered if the Marshal was trying to suffocate him, but that would’ve been much more violent.

So that could only mean… Marshal McCree was embracing him.

Why?  Hanzo had just been shouting at him.  They were two men.  They didn’t know each other…

It was so baffling that Hanzo stopped struggling.  He shut his eyes, feeling with his eyelids that his tears had soaked McCree’s neck.  The hot skin on his… right on his brow, his cheek… it was so strangely comforting.  The amazing warmth of McCree’s whole top half was comforting, held right against him.  Hanzo had imagined being embraced by a strong, comely man too many times to count, but the fantasies were nothing at all like his current situation.

 

He had stopped struggling at least. Jesse could feel those tears on his neck, hot and on his collar. The same with Hanzo’s breath. He smelt like he had used a rosehip oil in his hair. His grip didn’t let up. He didn’t say anything.

This young man was thousands of miles away from anything familiar, so broken and afraid that he was letting a stranger comfort him. Jesse felt a pulse of guilt for being the man to take advantage but a pulse of pride to be the man to be trusted, grip right up in his throat. He swallowed, chin coming up onto Hanzo’s head. He made a quiet _Shh_ with his lips.

 

Hanzo felt heavier the more time he spent not struggling.  Slightly dizzy too.  He’d had a burst of enraged energy, but now that the rage was gone, the energy drained out as well.  He gave up, letting himself sink a little more against McCree’s sturdy build while he breathed in that woodsy smell of cologne on heated, masculine skin.  God, the scent was enticing this close, alarmingly so.  Men had only just started wearing scents like this in Japan…

 

His crying had quieted. Good. Jesse couldn’t help that stirring in his blood-- like someone had given him something. An opiate. Hanzo was… the perfect size for him to hold. But goddamit, Jesse fucking McCree you are a Marshal and you should not put your hand on the back of his head and pet that smooth as velvet black hair… Or let your other hand down on the middle of his back. Or start to rock him.

 _Goddamn._ He cursed himself. _Goddammit, Jesse McCree you weak sonuvabitch._

As soon as he thought those things, right afterward, his body did them. One hand smoothed Hanzo’s long hair over his crown, till he hit the tie then cupped back up and pet it again. His other hand flattened, cupping down Hanzo’s shoulder blade and with the slightest sway, Jesse guided him one way, then the other. His cheek brushed Hanzo’s brow, stubble against that smooth skin.

Suddenly, the scent of something burning hit his nose. Jesse sniffed and turned up his nose to the air, following. It lead him to the cigarette he had dropped earlier. It was smoking on the carpet. Jesse swore and leaped to stomp it. He picked it up once it was snuffed. There was a sizeable burn by the edge of the bed.

“ _Sonuvabitch_!” McCree shouted, angry that he hadn’t smoked it and now he owed Miss Row a payment to clean and or fix that rug. Jesse gave a frustrated series of growls as he stomped to the window, yanked it open and hucked the cigarette out. “God damn fuckin’ _cigarettes!”_  He slammed the window shut with another growl, staying over there, his hands flexed on the frame.

 

Hanzo didn’t pay much attention as McCree’s hands started to shift… until they started to pet him.  Unmistakably.  His hair, his back. Hanzo’s eyes fluttered open, and he stood utterly still, not sure what to do.  Was this an appropriate Western gesture that he’d never heard of?  Or was it… what it felt like?  The kind of thing that made him tingle a little inside, that brought a fluttery feeling to his stomach.

What was happening...

Wait--something was burning.  And the way the Marshal snapped into action, he’d definitely smelled it to.  In a daze, Hanzo watched him stomp out the little searing patch and toss the cigarette out the window with a gruff curse.  Hanzo felt behind himself for the bed and sat down.  He curled over his knees and placed his face in his hands, trying to shut everything out and collect himself.

 

By the time Jesse had done enough breaking to get his wits about him, Hanzo was on the bed, looking just as broken as Jesse had expected him to be feeling. Jesse chewed on his lip, feeling guilty. He cleared his throat.

“I will uh, I think I best step out for a bit.” He stepped toward the night-table, reaching for his hat.

 

Hanzo’s head shot up, heartbeat quickening.  The Marshal only meant stepping out temporarily… not leaving for good, right?  He’d meant what he said at face value?

“Very well…”  Hanzo continued to watch him to see what he’d take with him before “stepping out for a bit.”  There was no one for miles who might even think of helping him except for Marshal McCree, and now Hanzo realized he was scared to even let the man out of his sight.

 

Mister Shimada looked like he had been shot. Or like a deer when it was waiting to spring. Jesse sighed, weight shifting with a clunk of his boot. He looked at Hanzo’s face.

“You don’t… wanna be alone?” He asked, gently.

 

Hanzo’s brow pinched, and he looked away quickly, surprised by McCree’s softness.  He must’ve looked so pitiful for McCree to have said something like that.

“O-of course not, I’m fine.  Go ahead.”  Hanzo nodded, still avoiding his gaze.  “I’ll just… rest for little while.”

 

Jesse stepped forward, his boot tips in Hanzo’s sight. His hands lifted, an open gesture, but his words wouldn’t come. He settled for a nod and put his hat on his head.

“Well, I’ll… see you at dinner.”

 

“Yes.”  Hanzo only nodded again, staring down at the tips of McCree’s boots.  He could sense McCree’s hesitance to leave.  It was strange… like McCree wanted to stay to comfort him or something.  But by now, after crying in front of this man like a lost toddler, Hanzo just wanted a moment alone, to at least try to collect whatever was left of his dignity.

 

Without another exchange and without another chance to embarrass himself, Jesse McCree walked out of their shared room, leaving behind what little left he had of his dignity and the key to the door. He would finish what he started at high noon-- and that was to get shamefully and utterly drunk.

What a day.

 


	3. A Rough Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension continues to mount as Marshal McCree and Hanzo Shimada prepare to set out after Chaney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome once again, McHanzo fans! So sorry we haven't added an update in so long! We really appreciate your patience, and we thank you for your readership!
> 
> Same disclaimer as before: the writing style may come across a little jarring because it’s basically an RP of one of our favorite pairings of all time. You’ll notice a POV shift every few paragraphs or so between Jesse and Hanzo.
> 
> Please Note: This fic has character dialogue containing ethnic slurs, which were used during the time period in which the story takes place. These ethnic slurs are meant to emphasize how foreign and misunderstood Hanzo feels when surrounded by people who lack a global perspective. They are not meant to offend the reader but rather to bring them closer to Hanzo's internal state and to shed light on people's cultural biases. We, PnP, wish to make it clear that it is not our desire to offend anyone--rather it is our desire to bring you closer to the characters.
> 
> -PnP

Hanzo would've been embarrassed that he'd fallen asleep fully dressed on the bed only moments after McCree had left the room the evening before. He would've been embarrassed, had it not been for the sight of the Marshal the next morning, drooling, disheveled, half-draped on the bed in his long-johns, obviously passed out after one hell of a drunken night.

Even after stepping out to buy a trail horse and trade the last of his nice clothes and luxury items for travel clothes, supplies, and an Indian bow and quiver of arrows, McCree was still right where Hanzo had left him.

Hanzo sat down on the mattress and stared at this man, the “lawman” he’d hired to help avenge and honor his father. By the severity of that snoring, he'd keep sleeping until high noon. But they needed to get a move on.

“Good morning, Marshal.”

 

Jesse snorted with a start, his pistol fumbling from the spot it had on his chest, falling to the floor as the Marshal scrambled to get his bearings. His hat, which had been perched on his brow, fell off and over his face. His arms hit the bed, searching for his pistol as he cussed and flung around for a bit, feeling completely hung over, and like he’d woken from the grave. As his hat fell away from his view, he saw the young, Mister Shimada there, not too far from his knees. He looked ready to go, with one of those school marm expressions, like Jesse had been caught peeping on girls.

“Aw hell.”

So he hadn’t dreamt _any of it._ Well… maybe some of it…

The Marshal blinked, trying to focus. His voice croaked when he spoke.

“Did we fuck?”

 

Hanzo watched McCree scramble, his faith draining away. The Marshal was definitely less than thrilled to see him.

“ _Nan_ \--” Hanzo’s cheeks lit on fire. “ _I beg your pardon?_ ”

 

The Marshal’s pounding head tilted to one side. He blinked slowly.

“So, nothing happened?” He scratched his hand through his hair, humming. “... how drunk was I?”

 

Yes, nothing happened… if one didn't count that embrace and the hair-petting when Hanzo had started to cry. But from the sound of it, McCree wasn't even going to remember that.

“I don't know. I fell asleep after you ‘stepped out.’” Hanzo’s nose wrinkled.

The man stunk of alcohol.

 

McCree had seen that face before. He knew he smelt like a saloon. Or the spitpot of one.

“Mm, goddamit.” He tried to swing his legs around Hanzo, to sit up. His head swam and he caught himself. “Guess we better--” Bile rose up. He belched, catching it, and swallowed it back down. “--head out--” He bent over the edge of the bed, coughing.

 

Hanzo watched him. _What in the world did I agree to?_  This man was… fuck! _What in the hell am I doing?!_

“Marshal. This display is not filling me with confidence.”

 

The Marshal reached for his pistol and his hat on the floor. He started to pull on his boots, which had been abandoned by the bed.  

“I am bonded United States Marshal! And I am half convinced you have shanghaied me into an agreement which you cannot afford.” He cleared his throat. “And seek to use me for a good night’s sleep at a reputable inn.” He glanced over at Hanzo. “Seeing the actual sum which you have promised would fill me with confidence, since you have no spirits to do the task.”  He grumbled away his words, and gestured to his coat which was draped on the post of the bed. “Pass my coat.”

 

Hanzo let him ramble. Like most hungover people awoken before they were ready to face the pounding headache, this man was cantankerous, grasping at every itch on his mind. Hanzo grabbed the coat and walked it over to him, giving him a look that said, ‘are you done?’

 

Jesse had gotten his hat by then. He harrumphed at Hanzo and took his good coat, regretting that he had brought it at all. He dug for his cigarette fixins and started to roll himself one.

“We’ll leave when the morning is halfway on. Figure the hangin’ will be almost finished by then. But we won’t have to worry ‘bout folks getting in our way.” His dry tongue needed several wet smacks in his mouth before the paper could darken with his saliva. “They got hangin’s in good old _Nippon,_ Mister Shimada?” He looked up at his client, hat on his head, the rolled cigarette bobbing in his lips.  

 

Surprising that McCree knew Japan by that name. In fact, McCree was the first one to recognize Hanzo's name as Japanese since he'd arrived in this country. “Yes. Among other things.”

 

Due to his expression, he’d surprised the young master. He felt a little stir of satisfaction, it wasn’t much. He’d learned the Japanese word for Japan from a boy whore.

“Care to see it?” He pulled the matches from off the nightstand. “The hangin?”

 

Hanzo's brows furrowed, a pinch of distaste in his gut. “I have no interest in that. Or any interest in the pleasure of the people watching.” He looked down, tugging a little on his belt. Maybe a bit tighter would be better.

 

The Marshal was relieved, frankly. Not that it would restore Hanzo’s confidence anyway. None of his quarry were there. After a few puffs, Marshal McCree stood up.

“Then we best prepare to leave. Do you have a horse?” He walked around the bed, unaware that the back flap of his long-john’s was open. A late night trip to the outhouse. He went to the armoire and started to pull on his other clothes.

 

Hanzo had not been expecting to see an ass. What was even more shocking was how pale it was compared to the rest of McCree.

Hanzo looked away. “Marshal… the… back of your clothes is open.” He didn't know how to say it precisely in English.

 

Jesse raised his eyebrow and twisted to see what Hanzo was talking about. Fuck-- his ass was out!

“Mm… never been a modest man…” He turned toward Hanzo, the bare part of him away. His shirt hung open over his flannel as he buttoned it. “Sorry…”

With that embarrassment suffered, the Marshal grumbled and started putting on his pants. He looked like a fool. His face was burning. He mumbled something about the heat with his clothes on and kept getting in his more conservative number, his clothes for travel instead of that burgundy wool suit he only wore to court.

 

Hanzo glanced over to make sure it was safe to look in that general direction again. McCree was acting surprisingly sheepish. Blushing even. It was almost… endearing.

“I do have a horse,” said Hanzo, deciding to spare McCree further embarrassment.

 

“Good.” Jesse said, tucking his linen shirt into trouserpant. “If they did not give you a good price for him, I’ll make sure to shake them up for dishonest trading.” The corner of his mouth turned up at Hanzo. He cleared his throat and sucked on his cigarette. “The China grocer will keep my things. I need shells… jerky… a few other supplies and my affairs will be in order.” He tapped his cigarette out over the ashtray on the other nightstand. He turned away from Hanzo as he pulled a worn, deep red and golden serape over his leather coat. He flung it around his shoulder with a whip of the fabric.

“And how ready are you for the _wild country,_ Mister Shimada?”

Jesse dragged his trunk out from under the bed, clicked it open. He started setting his guns on the bed.

 

Hanzo peered at the weathered, red and gold wrap the Marshal flung around his shoulders. He'd never seen a garment quite like that before, at least in that pattern.

He watched as the Marshal laid out his arsenal. “I'll just follow you, Marshal, and try not to die.”

 

McCree smiled, his cigarette burning down toward the corner of his mouth. He cocked his rifle. The machine clicked.

“You been thinking of that saucy line all morning?” He looked up.

 

“Hm?” He didn't understand that phrasing. But there was something McCree seemed to like about what he'd said. “I'm sorry, what is a ‘saucy line’?”

 

McCree laughed and picked up one gun after the other, as if weighing them in his hands. “I am surprised by my good humor this morning.” He chose his weapons and stood up, placing two back in the trunk. He put a hand to his head as he stood. It was pounding a bit. “You have a gun?” His next look was a little more pointed, doubting perhaps. A colt pistol looked like it could send this young man flat on his back.

 

“A gun? No.” Hanzo held up his bow and arrows. “I have this.”

 

McCree glanced from the arrows, to the bow, to Hanzo’s face. Then back to the bow, then back to his face. “Is that a prop?”

 

“Proppu?” Hanzo didn't know that word either. “No. It’s a bow and arrows.” Had McCree honestly never seen these before?

 

That little… _stutter_ he’d done. Was that the way Hanzo pronounced it? It gave him a fawn-like expression to his face. Jesse McCree had to duck his head away from that little rush of blood he felt to his jowls. He pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and put it in the ashtray. “I know what it is…” He exhaled. “You’ve never shot a gun before?” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at this young man, who suddenly looked a lot younger and a lot more innocent in the Marshal’s eyes.

 

“No. But I know archery.” Hanzo ran his fingers over the feathers on the arrows. “It's much quieter than gunshots. And you can reuse the ammo.”

 

The Marshal’s brows furrowed. He closed the trunk with a decisive _plunk_ and started putting guns on his belt and in his coat. “We ain’t huntin’ coons…” He mumbled.

 

Hanzo watched him from the corner of his eye, bristling a little inside as he gripped the bow. It may not have been a gun. But it most definitely could kill.

He snatched up an arrow and aimed it right at Jesse’s eye. One flash of movement. He held the weapon steady, his arms perfectly still though the bowstring was taut.

 

As soon as Hanzo moved, Jesse’s gun was out of its holster, his finger was tight on the trigger, his gun low, by his belly but it could shoot a hole in Hanzo’s chest. The Marshal was straight as an evergreen, his nostrils widening with a deep inhale.  

 

Hanzo looked down at the gun, shocked to find it out and aimed at him.  A real, American quickdraw! He was almost too impressed to be alarmed.

He started laughing, enthralled. “Well then, Marshal.” He half-smiled, half-gaped at McCree.

 

McCree’s body was still tight, he hadn’t let up his grip on the trigger. His brow was still furrowed, the brim of his hat low. His eyes flitted, back to Hanzo’s laughing mouth. Was this boy some kind of idiot? The Marshal inhaled.

“Don’t you raise that weapon at me, boy. Unless you wanna thrown down.” His voice was like the sound of a boot on gravel. His thumb slithered up to the hammer of the pistol and pulled it down with that hissing click.

 

Hanzo lowered his bow and backed off, his heart starting to pound. “So. _Now_ it's a weapon. And not a prop.” He made sure to cut the word at the end. He was afraid, but suddenly he was angry too. “Either put that gun away or pull the trigger.”

 

McCree’s eyes bulged.

“You tell me what to do _one more time_ with that pretty little mouth of yers and I’ll make you skin that bow and see what happens. You think your arrow is faster than a bullet?” His eyes glanced down to the bow. Mister Shimada was just a stupid kid. He’d had some _machisimo_ instinct come over and he’d done something stupid. Jesse had been there. He’d been there more than once. He _still_ went there… but at least experience had taught him when to pick his battles. “You think because I like a drink and you’re payin’ me what’s due that you’ve got a leash round my neck. And I’m thinkin’... you best turn that the other way around. Because I’m the only person out here who gives a damn about you, Hanzo Shimada, and _will_ hesitate to put a hole in your skull.”

For another moment, that gun lingered, motionless, before the Marshal sighed and put it back into the holster at his waist. He adjusted his hat.

 

Hanzo stood frozen. McCree’s words rattled him, but his body was stuck.

McCree did actually give a damn about him? Why? Hadn't the Marshal had enough of him already?

Oh. The fifty dollars. That was enough of a reason to give a damn, wasn't it?

Even so, the guilt weighed heavily in Hanzo’s chest. He knew his father would've been disappointed in his actions.

Hanzo breathed in. “I'm sorry. For how I've behaved. And for appearing ungrateful.” He gathered his things quietly. “My father taught me to be better than that.” His eyes stung, but he quickly blinked it away. “I'm sorry.”

 

The Marshal chewed his lip. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I should bend you over my knee .” He sniffed. “Give you a lickin’ with my belt. That’s what yer daddy would do, right?”

He didn’t know if he really believed that this kid was sorry. Guess he had to.

“We’re going into the Indian Territory. Do you know how many outlaws and misfits run amuck in there? I need to know you can have a cool head and aren’t planning to peg me with--” He pointed at the bow and arrow. His teeth gritted. “Look, this isn’t an insult to you Mister Shimada, but all I’ve seen is your temper and it’d really be best if you waited here and I brought yer Tom Chaney back in a bag.” He picked up his trunk and the rifle that was still on the bed.

 

Hanzo paused before answering. He was so tired of arguing. So damn tired of it. Why was it that he had such a short fuse around this man? How could he make McCree understand that whatever it was he had to face, he would do it to avenge his father. He _had_ to do it. To do anything less was a dishonor.

“No,” Hanzo said simply, sadly.  He fastened his pack. “I'm not staying here.”

 

With a sputter of his lips, Jesse McCree shrugged and carried his trunk toward the door. “Then, no more outbursts and bossin’ me around. We clear? Oh--” He turned to face Hanzo and started walkin’ backwards. “I want that reward _in advance_.”

 

That demand was not surprising, especially considering what had just transpired between the two of them.  Hanzo had been resistant to paying any money up front, afraid of being scammed and taken for a fool.  But at this point, McCree could’ve gotten that money from him already if he was truly a bad man.  McCree could’ve killed him in his sleep and robbed him.  Could’ve killed him right now, claiming self defense, and silently taken the money without anyone being the wiser or caring.  Hell, McCree could’ve held him at gunpoint by now and forced him to hand it over.  Who would take Hanzo’s word over a U.S. Marshal’s?  But no. McCree took none of these easy options, and the reason could only be that there was decency in him.

And considering what he was asking McCree to do, payment up front seemed more and more reasonable.  Even if he didn’t like the way McCree asked for it.

“Fine.  But don’t go out yet please.”  Hanzo fished around in the scratched, leather bag slung across his body, a cheap buy from the trader’s.  “I want to give it to you in private.”  He pulled out the leather wallet he’d stuffed at the very bottom.  “We don’t need people knowing you’ve got this much money on you.” Hanzo walked to McCree, and once before him, he offered up the wallet in both hands, dipping in a slight bow.

 

It was respectful to bow, wasn't it? Where Mister Shimada came from. He was kissing up now. Good. McCree dropped his case and stepped forward, spurs clanking. He put his hand out, pinching the edge of the fine leather that was offered. He was half convinced that Hanzo was gunna yank it back.

“Then let this be the real start of our business venture.” He tipped his head, careful with his hat, to signal his gratitude. “Mister Shimada.”

 

Hanzo could feel McCree’s gaze sizing him up, reading his gestures and his face. It was an intelligent gaze, and Hanzo couldn't help but notice again the despite his rough exterior, the Marshal did have some generous God-given looks. He met the Marshal’s eyes, but only for a moment. He didn't want any more trouble.

“There's something else…” Hanzo reached into his bag and pulled out a small canvas bundle. “I got it when I went out this morning.” He held it out with another bow, a little quicker and more self-conscious than the first one, not really looking at McCree as he did it.

 

The Marshal pocketed the wallet, his brow raising at the next offered item. He grumbled questioningly, feeling like maybe there was something to this little gift exchange, with the way Mister Shimada looked away like that-- like he was embarrassed. He unfolded it. It was a fresh tobacco pouch. Canvas was clean. When Jesse lifted it to his nose it smelt fresh. He smiled. And he realized it was the first time in years that someone had gotten him a gift. He rolled it back up and got the wallet out that Mister Shimada had just given him.

“Mm… thanks but, I don't wanna be in yer debt…”

His calloused fingers flipped through the bills, counting. There was fifty dollars there. But it was larger bills. Jesse bit his lip. He gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. “Guess I owe you.” He clapped the wallet shut. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

He grabbed the brim of his hat and jerked his head in a nod.

 

‘Sweetheart’?

Hanzo felt his cheeks get hot. If an older, motherly type of woman used that term of endearment toward him, that would've been different. But the Marshal?

“It's not…” He could only glance at McCree’s face, which was so warm now suddenly. “It’s not much, but it's a gift, so…” No, he definitely couldn't look at the Marshal anymore right now. “... so please just keep it.”  Hanzo hitched up his bags and strode past McCree as quickly as possible to the door.

 

Hanzo was a bit flushed. Was he embarrassed? Why was he so embarrassed? Jesse’s smile widened. What a cord he'd struck in the young master. He liked it. Jesse wanted to pluck it more, like a string on his guitar. Most everybody had a sweet side. It was surprising.

“Well, thank you kindly.” He crooned, picking up his bags and following Hanzo to the door.

 

Hanzo was afraid to even look back at McCree. He could tell he was bright red in the face, and he didn't want McCree seeing that. But when he wasn't looking at the Marshal, it just made Hanzo that much more aware of how rich and smooth his voice was… Hanzo had a training partner with a voice like that at the dojo back home. Not the most handsome fellow in the world… but Hanzo had a weakness for a rich, masculine voice. His training partner would certainly never, _ever_ find that out about him. And neither would the Marshal.

 

 


End file.
